“I say, Blachland,” said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to the southward, “We didn’t reckon to meet again like this last time when we broke camp yonder on the Matya’mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out of the country? Eh?”
“Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?”
“I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?”
“Here, let’s have another tot all round,” interrupted Pemberton who, by the way, had had just as many as were good for him. “You ain’t going to nobble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don’t you think it.”
“Who says so, Pemberton?”
“I say so. Didn’t I say Blachland ’ud never get to Umzilikazi’s grave? Didn’t I? Well, he never did.”
Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzical glance which passed between Blachland and Sybrandt—who was in the know—at this allusion, went unnoticed. Pemberton continued, albeit rather thickly:
“Didn’t I say he’d never get there? Didn’t I? Well, I say the same now. You’ll never get there. You’ll never nobble Lo Ben. See if I ain’t right.”
[a/]